there is no gelt in this writing lark no real profit no final reward just a hunger an insatiable need to press the keys and play the notes that fill the page all writing is futile I can’t express how I feel not in so many words I’d like to take my pain roll it into a ball and stuff it in your mouth so you’d be mute like me your seams leaking blotting your copy book with a silent crimson scream
“The only good poet is a dead poet.”
I like my words jagged as crocodile teeth dirty as a whore’s tongue and rabid as the breath of infected dogs I don’t require prettifying or disinfecting keep those nice words for old ladies to sprinkle on their cakes I want you to feel me in you I have no time for ambiguity or tickling ears I want to ram my words right down your throat one day I’ll find the beat that forces the rhythm of my concoction into your heart like a fucking dagger
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